


Move Me

by stardropdream



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Post-Season/Series 07, Season 8 Doesn't Exist, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 01:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17437703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: While sparring with Shiro, Keith injures himself. Shiro takes care of him.





	Move Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valkyriepilot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valkyriepilot/gifts).



> Fic request from [Jill](https://twitter.com/EphemeraBlossom), who asked for Keith and Shiro sparring, Keith getting injured, and Shiro taking care of him. Some good old hurt/comfort. Thank you again for the request and for your patience while I filled it! 
> 
> And a big thank you to [Spooky](https://twitter.com/spooky_foot), who generously read this over for me and also validated me lol.

“Want to spar, baby?” Shiro asks, his mouth curling with a smile. 

It’s a habit to ask the question— they both know Keith will say yes. But still Shiro always asks.

Keith doesn’t bother to consider that Shiro doesn’t notice how agitated he is today. And Keith doesn’t bother to act surprised Shiro isn’t asking him outright. 

But he doesn’t want to talk about it. Doesn’t want to talk about how he feels like he’s about to rattle out of his skin, all his nerves set on edge. He doesn’t want to talk about all the whispers he keeps hearing, rumors about how _the Black Paladin is Galra, too, you know_ and he definitely doesn’t want to talk about all the meetings where Shiro has to show up and smile, his eyes tired because he isn’t resting enough, because the Garrison keeps demanding more more _more_ from him and people spy a bruise at his neck and say _even_ half _-Galra are going to be more aggressive—_. 

He doesn’t want to talk about bureaucracy or hierarchy. He doesn’t want to talk about the dirty looks and snide rumors. He doesn’t want to be anything other than Keith, but instead he’s the Black Paladin, he’s _that half-Galra Paladin_ , he’s unworthy or unlovable or whatever ugly thing he held inside his heart for so long before Shiro melted everything around him. 

Keith’s ready for a fight. 

And Shiro is here, shirt clinging to his chest, thighs flexing as he stretches. He’s handsome, too handsome almost. And Keith’s tense. He keeps having to remind himself to unclench his jaw. 

Keith pulls himself from his thoughts and looks at Shiro, waiting for the answer. He rolls his shoulder and practically growls, “Yes.”

Shiro’s eyebrows lift but he looks less flustered by Keith’s growl and more concerned, studying his face. Rather than answer whatever silent question Shiro asks, Keith rips his shirt off and tosses it aside. He bounces from foot to foot, trying to get himself to loosen up. He closes his eyes and reminds himself that he likes Shiro’s arms wrapping tight around him. It’s fun. Sparring is _fun._

It doesn’t matter what the rumors say. What matters is Shiro. 

He likes sparring with Shiro. Sparring with Shiro is a lot like having sex with Shiro, except they have to keep their clothes on and they tend to have an audience. Still, Keith likes the primal feeling of ducking and dodging him, swinging into his space to disarm him, feeling the slide of their bodies together, the way they wrap around each other, the way they dip and respond and angle into each other. Sparring is always the way to get Keith feeling keyed up but also, oddly, relaxed, sinking into Shiro’s arms, usually letting it end with Shiro pinning him down if only because he can feel his comforting weight pressing down all around him. He’s always liked the feeling of Shiro’s hips pressing to his. 

When sparring, like in so much else, Shiro is damnably patient and always waits for Keith to come to him. But perhaps he senses Keith’s nervous and edged energy, because today he pivots and ducks into Keith’s space before Keith’s even gotten into a fighter’s position. Shiro’s shoulder hits Keith’s chest and Keith stumbles back a little, Shiro’s hands sliding across his hips as he grabs him. 

Keith refuses to be pinned so easily, grasping Shiro hard and swinging around his body, Shiro’s legs tangling with his enough to leave Shiro stumbling as his center of gravity shifts. Keith darts away and goes on the defensive. Shiro’s arm gives him an even deadlier reach than his long limbs already afford him and Keith ducks and swivels. 

“That all you got?” Keith taunts, exactly because he knows it’ll get Shiro to laugh and launch himself at Keith. 

Shiro likes it when Keith teases, likes it when he’s mocking and flippant and cocky. He likes to shove Keith down to the ground and pin him afterwards, kiss that smug look right off his face. Or, as is often the case when they’re at the gym together, just smirk at him with a promise of said kissing, once there aren’t other people watching. (Keith usually likes that, the way Shiro makes everything between them private— meant only for Keith.) 

Today is no different. Shiro chuckles, low and deep and pooling in Keith’s gut, and then he’s pushing off the mats and running full-force towards Keith— far faster than Keith somehow anticipated. It means Shiro gets his arms around him and sends them crashing to the ground. Keith would normally swing his body, nimble and agile, around Shiro, leave him grasping nothing but air— but today he’s unfocused, distracted, fumbling for some sort of grip. 

He nearly snarls when Shiro gets him down onto the ground. Shiro’s eyes widen marginally at the reaction, and it’s enough for a distraction for Keith to get his feet under him and push up, kicking hard into Shiro’s stomach. He rolls away with a soft _oof_ and Keith swings up after him, grappling for Shiro’s arms, hands curling around his wrists and trying to pin him down. 

“Keith,” Shiro says, as something like a warning, and Keith slackens his hold. Shiro squirms and gets out from under him and they get back onto their feet. Shiro tilts his head. “What’s the matter? Are you—”

Keith takes a sliding run into Shiro’s ankles, swinging hard and knocking him out from under himself. Shiro goes toppling down but rolls to keep it away from a damaging fall, rolling out of Keith’s attempts to pin him down or wrestle him into submission. 

He keeps doing that— running at Shiro, trying to get him on the ground, trying to grind his body against his— and Shiro keeps dodging, glancing back and casually batting away Keith’s flurry of attacks. Keith growls. He’d be better if they were fighting with weapons instead of hand-to-hand. Shiro has always been better at that, has always had more body weight, more power, somehow still agile despite it all. 

He squirms when Shiro gets him down on the ground, belly pressing to the mat, arms pinned behind his back, Shiro’s weight bearing down on him. Shiro’s breathing heavily and this is what Keith usually loves— that feeling of intimacy, of Shiro pressed to him like this, feeling the swell of his breath against his back, the way their hips slot together, the heavy press of his body pushing Keith down into the mat until he can practically choke on it. 

Today, though, he keeps squirming and Shiro tightens his hold. 

“Yield.” He breathes the command out against the shell of his ear, and if Keith weren’t feeling so agitated, it’d be enough to leave him trembling, that flirty way Shiro always delivers the single word. 

Keith refuses. He pants, squirming, twisting, trying to loosen his grip. Shiro is unrelenting. His metal hand clenches and holds tight, unbending. Keith keeps trying anyway. 

Shiro nearly eases off, and Keith keeps shoving at him, trying to get free. “Keith, wait, you’ll hurt—”

Keith jerks too hard, twists too fast, and his foot kicks hard at Shiro’s ankle. It sends Shiro collapsing with his full weight on Keith. Keith’s mid-squirm when Shiro drops on him and he feels something in his shoulder give the slightest pop and he gasps out, pain and surprise at once. 

Shiro lets go of him immediately and rolls off Keith with no grace, just a desire to get away. A moment later, Shiro’s reaching for him. “Keith, God, are you okay—”

“I’m fine,” Keith grits out, but his shoulder aches and he knows better than to try to move it. 

Shiro’s expression ripples first to surprise and then to guilt. And just like that, the fight drains from Keith— any aggression, any anger— gone in the short moment it takes from Shiro to be half-smiling to looking horrified.

Shiro’s touch is gentle, one hand scooping at the small of his back, the other his unpopped shoulder, helping him to sit up. Keith blinks, trying to reorient himself. All things considered, the pain isn’t bad— an ache, certainly, but no sharp pain. He hasn’t dislocated his shoulder, merely tweaked a muscle and Galra heal quickly. One small benefit, much as the people who side-eye him in the hallways might believe it to be all bad. Then again, it’s their side-eyeing that’s left him this agitated in the first place. 

But still, when he looks up at Shiro to assure him, he’s arrested by the absolute shattered look on Shiro’s face. It’s disproportionate for the level of injury. 

“I’m fine,” he’s quick to repeat, softer this time. He touches Shiro’s wrist, where it lingers at his side. “Shiro,” he says, his voice graveled and bare rather than strung with tension. “I’m okay.” 

“Keith,” Shiro answers. He doesn’t say anything else, just silently touches Keith and helps him up onto his feet. Keith watches him, dazed and clutching his shoulder absently, as Shiro retrieves Keith’s discarded shirt and shoes, then his own. He returns to Keith’s side, touching the small of his back again. 

His touch is gentle, almost too gentle— as if he’s about to snatch it back. As if Keith might withdraw, as if Keith could ever flinch away from him. He leans pointedly into Shiro’s hand at his back. 

“Shiro,” Keith presses and doesn’t know what to say to dispel the guilt on Shiro’s face. He leans up to kiss him, helpless and inadequate. “I’m okay. It was an accident.” 

“I know,” Shiro says, and Keith wonders if he actually does know. “Come on,” Shiro says, voice gentle but strained. “Let’s get someone to look at your shoulder.” 

 

-

 

The intern on the med team declares it a minor strain, proving Keith’s initial assessment correct. 

The intern gives Keith some muscle relaxants for sleeping, should he need it, but assures Keith nothing serious is damaged, just a need to rest and not overwork it, and to ice it for twenty-minute intervals if the swelling gets bad. 

“You should be fine. Galra heal pretty quickly, after all,” the intern says, and he doesn’t say it in any way other than fact but still Keith feels a tension in his shoulders.

Shiro studies him and must see the pinch in his expression because he says, “Humans heal pretty quickly, too. Poor Olkari take months to heal simple scrapes sometimes.” 

Keith touches Shiro’s wrist, curls his fingers loosely, and holds. 

Keith’s no stranger to aches and pains. He’s been through much, much worse while in deep space with Team Voltron, and certainly with the Blade of Marmora where they didn’t even have the benefit of healing pods. 

Shiro hovers as they head back towards the paladins’ quarters. Wordlessly, Keith follows Shiro into his room. It’s where he’s been spending most of his time the last few months anyway, ever since he and Shiro started dating. Most of Keith’s clothes and things have found their way to Shiro’s quarters. The Black Paladins’ quarters is almost laughably empty at this point, more a place for the wolf to sleep uninterrupted whenever Shiro and Keith are being loud at night than a place Keith willingly goes to spend time. 

“I’ll run you a bath,” Shiro decides and leaves Keith standing there in the middle of their room, darting into the bathroom before Keith can protest. 

Keith puzzles over Shiro’s doting with a sigh, crossing his uninjured arm over his chest and gripping his other arm. His shoulder throbs, a dull pain, but nothing too bad. It’s swelling a little but otherwise isn’t disrupting his mobility. It’s _fine._

Considered how many scars they both have, how many injuries, Shiro’s hovering is perplexing. Still, Keith doesn’t put up a protest when Shiro comes back to him, the sound of running water announcing his return as the bathroom door whooshes open. 

He touches Keith’s hips, impossibly gently, once he’s in his personal space again. “How are you feeling?” 

“I told you I’m fine,” Keith says, and there’s an edge of annoyance there— not at Shiro, but at the general universe. 

Shiro’s expression flickers with guilt. Keith sighs and lifts his hand, touching his cheek. 

“Shiro,” he says, almost scolding. He makes his voice soften— knows that’s what Shiro needs, even if Keith is incapable of being anything but a bother to him. He can be a good boyfriend. That’s what he wants to be, anyway. 

Shiro’s hand covers Keith’s, presses it against his cheek so he can’t pull away. He answers, almost playful but not quite, “Keith.” 

Keith studies his face for a moment, letting his thumb brush along the line of Shiro’s jaw. Shiro’s expression doesn’t quite soften, looks a little haunted at the edges. Keith frowns, and keeps stroking across his cheekbone. 

“It’s just a shoulder,” he tells him. 

Shiro’s expression doesn’t change, but he seems to fold inwards, his shoulders slumping. His hand slides over the back of Keith’s, curls lightly around his wrist.

“Come take a bath,” Shiro tells him, and tugs once. Keith lets him drag him into the bathroom. “You’ll feel better once your muscles can relax.”

“Didn’t I get pills for that?” Keith teases, but Shiro doesn’t tease back. He sits at the tub’s edge and runs his hand through the water to test the temperature, adjusts the water, and then turns towards Keith.

“Do you need help out of that?” Shiro asks. 

Normally Keith would tease him again, say something like how Shiro so rarely asks permission before stripping him. But he keeps quiet and just nods his head. Shiro’s unbearably tender as he helps ease Keith’s shirt off over his head. He moves almost too slow, careful not to jostle Keith’s shoulder. 

“Thanks,” Keith tells him, holding back the slightest flinch when his shoulder twinges. He looks up at Shiro. He says, voice low, “Hey.” 

Shiro tilts his head, and then sighs when Keith steps into his space and leans up, kissing him. Shiro’s hands run down his back, skim along the edge of his pants. Keith kisses him, tugs out a soft sigh past Shiro’s lips and drags his teeth along the swell of his bottom lip, lingering close. He takes his time. He tries to be patient, the way he knows Shiro likes. More than that, he wants to assure him— wants to banish whatever darkness lingers in Shiro’s eyes. 

Shiro’s hands touch at his skin, trace his ribs, ghost over his belly. Then he undoes Keith’s pants and breaks the kiss to kneel down and strip him, letting Keith plant one hand on his shoulder so he can step one foot at a time out of his pants. Shiro’s hands are big and warm at his hips. 

Keith makes a sound and Shiro rises towards him. Keith touches his face, cups his chin, and guides him back in to kiss him. It’s just a firm press of his mouth to his, a series of pecks. He waits until he hears Shiro’s little breath, that one little sound that Keith always loves to hear. 

“Get in with me?” Keith asks, mouth ghosting over his mouth. He pulls away from the kiss to study his face. 

Shiro casts a skeptical look at the bathtub, both its size and the water level. He lifts his eyebrows at Keith and, finally, almost smiles. Keith considers that a triumph. 

“Think I’ll fit?”

“You’ve managed tighter squeezes,” Keith says, bland and innocent. 

Shiro doesn’t protest as Keith starts tugging on the drawstrings of his exercise sweats. Shiro rolls his hips, and it’s slow and sensual and Keith almost wishes there was a way to coax Shiro into a better mood than the worry he’s launched himself into, but he restrains himself and helps Shiro undress. 

He presses his hand to Shiro’s chest once he’s naked. He traces his fingertips along his collarbone, following the jagged edge of one of his scars. 

“It’s just my shoulder, Shiro,” Keith says again. 

Shiro sighs. He closes his eyes. “I know. Come on. Let’s get you relaxing.” 

He turns away and steps into the tub. He turns off the water and then settles in, squirming a little as he settles into a comfortable enough spot that leaves room for Keith. 

He looks up at him. “Want to lean against me or are we doing opposites facing?”

Keith snorts. “You’re comfortable. The choice is obvious.” 

Shiro’s mouth hints a smile as he lifts his hand up for Keith to use as a brace as he steps into the bathtub. The water level rises dangerously close to the edge but doesn’t overflow, and Shiro’s hands on him are steady as he helps Keith lower. 

Keith sighs as his body slips into the water and he leans back against Shiro’s chest, tucking his face up against his neck and inhaling. Shiro smells nice, Keith’s always thought so, and having him there pressed against him is far more comforting than hot water. He sinks back against Shiro and closes his eyes, pressing a kiss to Shiro’s neck and feeling Shiro shiver against him. 

“You’re worrying too much,” Keith tells him, after a moment where he lets the silence simmer. The sound of the water sloshes. He feels Shiro shift behind him, can tell he’s looking at his shoulder, swollen but otherwise fine. Keith sighs and sinks further against him, slipping his body down Shiro’s chest, body dipping further into the water. 

“I’m worrying enough,” Shiro protests. His voice is quiet. His hand swishes through the water and then settles at his stomach, curled around him protectively, but not tight. Keith shivers, despite the warmth of the water. “… You’re always taking care of me. Why can’t I take care of you?”

Keith traces his fingers along Shiro’s arm, his other hand brushing over Shiro’s thigh, bent up to make space for Keith. 

“I don’t want you taking care of me if it means you’re looking so guilty about it,” Keith says. 

Shiro goes still against him. Keith sighs and tips his head back, resting on Shiro’s shoulder and studying his face. 

“Shiro,” he murmurs and Shiro shakes his head and presses a kiss to his temple. 

“I’m being stupid,” Shiro says. 

“Tell me,” Keith prompts. He squeezes Shiro’s thigh, presses his palm down against a punctured scar there, smoothing over the bumps of his skin. 

Shiro closes his eyes and noses into his hair, nuzzling. Keith feels his breath ghosting over his ear and shivers. 

“I don’t like how hard you push yourself sometimes,” Shiro admits in a quiet murmur, his expression pinched. “It… It worries me, Keith.” 

It’s rich, coming from Shiro, considering how often Shiro pushes himself. Shiro pushes himself to the point of exhaustion, sometimes. There are times when Shiro’s practically fallen asleep standing up, staring off into space and completely disconnected, only coming back to himself when Keith nudges his shoulder. The only way Keith can get Shiro to rest when he’s like that is to remind him that it’s a danger to his crew to have their captain so zoned out. It’s never enough to tell Shiro that it’s not good for _him._

“It was just sparring, Shiro,” Keith says. 

“You were pushing yourself too much.” 

“Maybe,” Keith relents. It’s true. “I’m frustrated.”

“With…?” Shiro prompts, then goes quiet. “Have I done something?” 

Keith shakes his head, frustrated, and twists a little— stilling only when Shiro’s hand presses to his stomach and holds him in place against his body. 

“Never,” Keith stresses, peering up at him. “Shiro. Don’t think that.” 

Shiro’s smile is faint, but there. Helplessly, Keith lifts a hand and touches his mouth, wishes he could banish whatever lingers at the edges there, wishes he could settle the squirming feeling inside himself. 

“I feel stir-crazy,” Keith admits. “Not because of you. You’re— perfect. You know that. I’d be going really crazy if you weren’t here. People don’t— People are stupid. They don’t get me the way you do.” 

He ducks his head and watches Shiro’s hand flex at his stomach and then work up, pressing over his chest, stroking along the lines of some scars, his muscles. Keith sighs and relaxes, shoulders slumping. 

“Whatever. I’m aggressive. I’ve always been,” Keith mutters. 

“You’re not aggressive,” Shiro says, his answer immediate. “You’re sweet.” 

Shiro’s hand settles just above Keith’s heart, pressing there. It’s strangely comforting and Keith snorts at the words and then sighs at the touch. 

“ _Sweet_ ,” he says, mocking. 

“The sweetest,” Shiro murmurs against his ear and presses his lips there. Keith hates that he shivers. 

“You’re the only one who thinks that,” Keith mutters. It comes out more bitter than he’d intended. 

Shiro’s fingers curl a little against his chest, palm pressing above his heart. Keith closes his eyes and remembers to breathe and unclench his jaw. 

“The people who matter know who you are, Keith,” Shiro says. “Your friends. Your mom.”

“You,” Keith emphasizes when Shiro goes quiet. 

Shiro ducks his head down and kisses his shoulder. He feels his smile. Quietly, he agrees, “Me.” 

“I just…” Keith trails off, collecting his words. “I wanted to get my mind off things.” 

“And pushing yourself does that?” 

“I don’t know,” Keith confesses. “I just feel— I want to do good. Save the universe. All that. But mostly I just— want to feel like what I’m doing matters.”

That what he does isn’t an example of what the Galra are, or how he’s better than other Galra. He can’t quite phrase it that way, can’t quite put words to it. He knows how Shiro will react if he tells him about the rumors. It’s better not to mention it. 

Shiro hums, quietly, and tucks his chin over Keith’s uninjured shoulder. Keith sighs and tilts his head, pressing his cheek to the side of Shiro’s head. 

“You are. You do.”

Keith smiles and closes his eyes. “Of course you’d say that.”

“You’re amazing, Keith. And you’re making a difference.” 

Keith nods his head, not entirely convinced, but willing to accept Shiro’s belief in him, as he always is. He leans against him and shivers when Shiro presses a kiss to his neck, then the line of his jaw. 

“Can I wash your hair?” Shiro asks him, after a moment, and Keith sighs.

“You’re being sappy. You better not be feeling guilty.” 

Shiro doesn’t answer, and Keith knows what that means, but he just sighs again and lets Shiro guide him down into the water, his hand combing through his hair as he gets it wet, scritches at his scalp in a way that makes Keith let out an embarrassing little moan.

Shiro takes his time, massaging the soap into his hair, fingers combing through tangles and rubbing slow circles at the base of his skull and up, pressing at the sensitive spots behind his ears, his temples, the crown of his head. He moves slow, using just his flesh hand, taking his time. He swipes at his forehead occasionally to keeps shampoo from seeping down into his eyes. 

Keith closes his eyes and just lets himself feel it, lets Shiro touch him and dote on him. From anyone else, it’d be an annoyance that Keith couldn’t tolerate. But he’ll accept all manner of things from Shiro. He touches Shiro’s thighs, running his hands soothingly from knees up to his hips. There’s no intent behind the contact, just trying to soothe him. He feels the tension in Shiro’s body tight like a bow. 

“I’m sorry I worry you so much,” Keith confesses as Shiro drags his nails over his scalp in a way that makes Keith want to absolutely melt. 

“I worry because I love you,” Shiro says, easily. “And I guess it’s payback, considering how often I’ve worried you.”

“I love you, too,” Keith echoes, faintly, and then his eyebrows pinch together. “I don’t— I worry about you because I care, too. You don’t need to—”

“I know, Keith,” Shiro whispers and kisses his cheek. “I’m lucky you were always looking out for me. I don’t deserve it.”

Keith wants to protest that, too, but before he can, Shiro guides him down back into the water and rubs the soap from his hair. Keith keeps his eyes closed at first, careful not to get soap or water in his eyes but opens them after a moment just to look up at Shiro. Shiro smiles at him, kind and gentle and good, and Keith can’t hear anything with his ears below the water, but he wants to say so much, too much, at once to Shiro— wants to wipe away the storm gathered in his eyes.

He lets Shiro repeat his attentions with the conditioner, slicking back his hair and rubbing his fingers in slow circles. It’s almost pathetically comforting, enough so that Keith feels like he’s about to fall asleep just from this, just from being surrounded by Shiro. He slumps forward and ducks his head against Shiro’s touch. 

“Almost done,” Shiro murmurs into his ear and then kisses his jaw, then guides him beneath the water one last time. Keith keeps his eyes closed, just feeling Shiro’s touch, his presence all around him. 

_You deserve everything,_ Keith thinks, staring up at Shiro. _You deserve the universe._

Shiro’s touch is gentle against him. He’s always gentle. 

They stay in the bath until the water goes cold and Keith lets Shiro pick him up and carry him from the tub, rub him dry and sling his towel over his hair until it stands up straight and fluffy and ridiculous. He lets Shiro help him into fluffy pajama pants. 

“What’re the chances that I can convince you to pull these off me later?” Keith asks, but his voice sounds heavy with fatigue and Shiro smiles his customary half-smile. 

“Not likely, baby,” he answers. He kisses him to soothe the rejection. “Pretty sure the med team will flay me if I make your shoulder worse.”

Keith privately thinks the med team won’t give a shit, but there are those shadows in Shiro’s eyes again, so he doesn’t protest as Shiro takes him to bed, pulling the covers down. 

“Wait here,” Shiro tells him and darts away. Keith watches him go. 

He comes back quickly enough, never really leaving Keith’s sight, and Keith isn’t surprised when he produces the little tin of warming salve. Keith huffs out a little laugh and rolls onto his stomach, cheek cushioned on the pillow. 

“You’re taking this so seriously,” Keith offers, again, and waits. 

Shiro untwists the tin and scoops out a generous amount, rubbing it between his hands. He doesn’t answer and Keith breathes, his body arching a little just from Shiro’s touch, the salve cool against his bath-warmed skin. Shiro sweeps his hands down over his body, avoiding his injured shoulder for now and instead focusing on the other, his biceps, the curve of his back, his sides. His touch is firm, not pressing too deep, but not too light as to tickle him, either. 

It does feel nice. Keith will admit that much. He lets Shiro massage the salve against his skin, knuckles digging at little knots in his muscles, fingertips tracing the line of his spine. The salve stays cool only for a few minutes and then warms up against his skin, bone-tingling and relaxing. The room smells like the spices in the salve and Keith exhales, sinking down into their mattress.

“Feels nice,” he murmurs and Shiro ducks down, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck, to each bump of his spine. 

Shiro hums once as he works. After a moment, he leans in again and kisses Keith’s cheek. His mouth brushes over the scar there. 

Something lurches in Keith’s stomach and understanding settles.

“Shiro,” he says, low. 

Shiro kisses his scar again and then pulls back, digging his hands down against his lower back, working out a knot there. 

Keith turns his head, watching Shiro’s face— bent in concentration, frowning— and says, “This isn’t your fault, Shiro.”

Shiro’s hands pause, only for a moment, before he starts digging his thumbs in, circling. His voice is quiet when he says, “I know.” 

“I should have yielded,” Keith stresses.

“I hurt you,” Shiro returns, his voice quiet, tentative. He looks up at Keith and then looks back down at his back, sweeping his hands up and squeezing his good shoulder. His hands don’t tremble, but they aren’t as steady as they were a second ago. 

“You fell. You didn’t mean to,” Keith insists. “I made you lose your balance.”

“I still hurt you,” Shiro hedges. He closes his eyes and sighs, turning towards the tin and swiping his fingers through it, pulling out more of the salve. “I’ve already hurt you enough. I—”

Keith squirms under him and Shiro backs up so immediately it’s almost laughable. Keith’s careful not to use his swollen shoulder to heave himself onto his knees and turns towards Shiro, pressing into his space and hooking his good arm around his neck and tugging him in.

He kisses him quiet, slow and demanding, his tongue sweeping across his bottom lip and then teeth biting down, tugging. Shiro lets out something like a whimper and responds with far more gentleness than Keith offers. 

When he breaks the kiss, he presses another to the corner of Shiro’s mouth, then his nose. “Shiro,” he whispers. “You’ve never hurt me.”

“That’s—” Shiro starts to protest.

Keith kisses him again, firmly, both hands lifting to cup his face and ignoring the twinge in his shoulder at the movement. 

Shiro sinks against him, his hand cupping one of Keith’s and his other arm curling protectively around him, holding him close. His kiss is tentative not from lack of desire, Keith knows, but concern. Keith drops his hand to give his shoulder some relief, if only for Shiro’s sake, even though every piece of him aches to be closer to Shiro, to assure him. 

“You,” Keith whispers when he breaks the kiss, staying close, his breath ghosting against Shiro’s parted mouth, “have never hurt me. Any fight I had to fight to get you back to me was worth it. Every time.” 

“I… I like sparring with you, but I— if I ever lost control again—” Shiro bites his lip, voice pained. 

“You’re hardly overly aggressive,” Keith presses. “Shiro. You couldn’t lose control. And even if you did, I’d be here to bring you back. I’ll accept you being overprotective right now only because you love me, _not_ because you feel guilty.”

“That isn’t it,” Shiro protests, voice small. 

Keith kisses him again, just a quick peck. Shiro chases after him, leaning forward and letting out a soft breath. Keith slants his mouth to his for his trouble. 

“Our fight,” Shiro says, quiet, as if Keith hadn’t already guessed as much. 

“We’ve talked about it,” Keith answers. “You know I don’t blame you and you know nothing you say will ever convince me otherwise.” 

Shiro shakes his head. “I know. It’s not that. It’s…” He sighs. “You push yourself so hard. So far. Even when other people would have given up.”

“Well. Good thing I’m not other people.” 

“Well,” Shiro echoes, and there’s almost a smile there. Keith studies his face but Shiro keeps his eyes closed, his brows pinching together. Keith wants to smooth it away with his thumb, but resists. 

“I’m never going to stop pushing myself when it comes to you, Shiro,” Keith tells him. He pauses, and frowns. “Does it— bother you?” 

It hadn’t occurred to him before to consider what it must be like for Shiro, to be with someone whose entire world hinges around him. Maybe it’s too much pressure, Keith thinks, or maybe it’s too demanding. The thought isn’t enough to make Keith consider, for a moment, stopping fighting the universe to protect Shiro, but it makes his brow furrow. He almost pulls away from where their foreheads are pressed together, studying Shiro’s face. 

“It doesn’t,” Shiro answers, and something eases in Keith’s shoulders. Shiro sighs. “You know I— I want to be worth all the trouble you go through.”

“You are,” Keith says immediately.

Shiro smiles, faint. He opens his eyes to meet Keith’s, holding his gaze for a long moment, without speaking. Keith isn’t sure what he sees. But his hands brush over Keith, soothing, some quiet yearning fueling the drag of his fingertips. 

“You’re worth it to me, too,” Shiro tells him, and his mouth hints an almost-smile. “You’ve brought me back from— so much, Keith. The least I can do is give you a bath after I mess up your shoulder.” 

Keith laughs, breathless, and bumps his forehead against Shiro’s in the shadow of a headbutt. Shiro laughs, too, and something eases in Keith’s chest. 

“It was a nice bath,” Keith admits. “You’re a good boyfriend, Shiro.”

Shiro laughs again. Holding Keith, his hand sneaks up his back and starts kneading into his shoulder. Keith squirms in surprise and then slumps forward to lean against Shiro, his body trembling at the feeling, pressing his face into Shiro’s shoulder. 

“Remember our first date?” Shiro asks. 

“Hm,” Keith grunts. “What about it?”

“You said you were feeling stir-crazy,” Shiro says with a shrug. “So, let’s do it again. Let’s go to Mars. Walk around on Olympus Mons. Watch the moons rise.” 

Keith smiles against Shiro’s shoulder, his body flooding with a delirious, ridiculous warmth for this man. “Well,” he murmurs. “I know Black might like the chance to stretch her legs, too.” 

“So let’s go. Once your shoulder’s better,” Shiro tells him. “I hear the sunrises on Mars are amazing.”

“Who told you that?” 

Shiro laughs. “Might have been the guy who brought me there on a date.” 

“Hm,” Keith huffs, and then draws away to look at Shiro again. He touches Shiro’s cheek and smiles when Shiro leans into it. “Thanks for taking care of me, Shiro.” 

“Always,” Shiro promises and Keith believes him. 

He lets Shiro push him down onto his back and sweep his pants off, despite earlier dismissals of such a thing happening. Keith can’t complain when Shiro rubs his hands together and starts kneading into his thighs, down his calves, and to his feet. He hasn’t stretched any muscles here, but it’s still relaxing and Keith stretches and twists a bit in Shiro’s hands when he hits a particularly deep knot in the muscle. He works them out smoothly, soothingly, thumbs pressing with almost painful precision. 

Keith closes his eyes, relaxing, forgetting the aching, dull pain in his shoulder in favor of Shiro’s hands. When Shiro is done, he crawls up the line of Keith’s body, hovering above him. He doesn’t hesitate when he touches Keith, but there’s a gentleness there that Keith always sees in Shiro— the way he’ll hold himself poised above Keith, the way his hands on him are always gentle, always seeking to comfort him, to hold him in the lake of his hands. 

“… You really think I’m sweet?” Keith murmurs.

“Only a sweet person would take me on a date to Mars,” Shiro teases and laughs. 

Keith laughs and rises, arching, to press his mouth to Shiro’s. Then, he pulls him down against him, his body to Keith’s— only ever a comforting, precious weight.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject) (including the [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/commentbuilder)), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates responses, including:
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